


One Two Tango

by septicwheelbarrow



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Erik you need to get laid, M/M, Masturbation, Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septicwheelbarrow/pseuds/septicwheelbarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik thinks of Charles and masturbates in the Pentagon. That is literally it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Two Tango

**Author's Note:**

> Experimenting with tenses, so, uh, they're kind of all over the place. Anyway, enjoy the solo tango? :D

Erik begins with his clothes off, as always, folded neat and prim, tucked in a corner the way Charles liked it. His cock is half-hard but shrivelled, air gnawing cold beneath his skin, sinking deep into the slow surge of his veins. He reaches down to caress it, one smooth stroke from root to tip, intending to coax it to full length. Instead he hisses and shivers, flinching away from his icy fingertips.

It doesn't matter. He lowers himself slowly, stretching his back out onto his makeshift bed, a piece of cloth on the floor. Uncomfortable, but his spine has had years to acclimatize himself to the hard concrete.

He's not forgotten, how warm Charles' bed feels just as he's waking up, how soft and content. Now Erik indulges in the memory, greedily gorging himself with half-remembered sensations until he feels about to burst.

Sex with Charles. Sex with Charles usually begins with a tender caress, fingers gliding across his cheek. In his crude pallet Erik brings his hand up to his jaw and presses his thumb behind his ear, until he feels the edge of his jawbone. In a slow, slow sweep, he runs his thumb down his jawline, down his chin, knuckles brushing the dry cracks of lips. His kisses his knuckles, one by one - the way Charles did, once upon a time, whispers spilling out of his red mouth with every absent kiss. _My god,_ Charles said, eyes wide and looking at Erik in wonder, _you are the most --_

Erik brings his fingers to his mouth; his tongue tastes salt and traces of the gravy he was given for lunch. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose, he licks the pads of his fingers, taking his time with each one.

His other hand is splayed across his stomach, rising and falling with every breath. By now Charles would have kissed down his chest, following the sparse hairs from his navel to his erect cock. He would have kissed it, by now, lips worshipping the head of Erik's cock, making an obscene gesture seem holy. Unless, Erik sighs, unless they wanted to take it slow.

Slow is exactly what Erik wants right now.

With a deep exhale, he brings both his hands to his neck, wrists crossing over his breastbone. His fingers encircle his throat, clenching with enough pressure that it becomes difficult to breathe.

Erik liked to do this, liked to feel the surge of Charles' pulse as they made love; he'd taste the hollow of Charles neck, chasing the bob of his Adam's apple with his teeth. Charles would squirm so prettily under his hands, deliciously responsive, breath hitching as he tried not to make any noise. Erik is helpless but for kissing him. Eyes open, greedily drinking the sight of Charles, flushed and laid bare.

He keeps his eyes shut now and throughout, all the better to immerse himself in the fantasy. It's silent within these walls except for the flutter of his pulse.

Soon, dizzy with the loss of oxygen, he lets go of the pressure at his throat. For seconds he simply lies there and breathes, long gasping breaths as he gulps down air. The fingers of his right hand cool as his saliva dries, and he shoves them into his mouth hurriedly, laving his tongue over them they way he would Charles' cock. Thrusting deep into his throat until it burns, he twists his tongue over each knuckle, tasting the flap of skin between each finger.

A breathy sound that tapers into a sigh falls from his lips as he traces his collarbone with his other hand, a gentle counterpoint to the way the fingers in his mouth move. He follows the curve of bone, fingers staccatoing over his chest until he finds his nipple. There, he digs into his skin with the nail of his thumb.

The sharp pain makes him moan, unbidden, fingers stilling in his mouth. His body gives a slight jolt.

He twists his nipple, still tender from the earlier scratch, worrying it until red blooms over the skin. His saliva-wet hand he brings down to his hip, to dig his nails at the protrusion where skin stretches thin over bone. This is where Charles loved to be touched, before, and he would make the most delicious sound whenever Erik swirls his tongue upon that spot, during mornings when everything was soft, half-asleep and forgiving.

He's not gentle with his own body the way he usually was with Charles. Because _Charles,_ Charles had been and still is the most precious thing he's ever allowed himself to have, and with him every touch is poetry and every kiss a love song. Even when he's being rough he's tender, laving apologetic kisses over the bruises he left on Charles exquisite skin. With himself, though, he digs deep into flesh, nails scoring skin and leaving red marks.

Bracing his hands just below his navel, Erik teases at the strands of hair leading towards his erect cock. It's aching now, the tip glistening with precome; his breaths are ragged and heavy, his legs trembling with anticipation. Erik takes a deep breath to calm himself. As his lungs circulate air, he runs his hands up and down his chest, alternating between his palms and the back of his nails. His nipples are already red, and they will bruise by morning, skin mottling a purplish hue. _Good,_ Erik thinks, through the haze of lust.

Eventually, when the pressure of his groin becomes too demanding to ignore, he drags both hands down the line of his pelvis, towards his inner thigh. His cock twitches in response, a drip of semen leaking down the tip, disappearing into the patch of hair.

He spreads his legs, fingers dipping between them to tease at his balls. He's not being gentle, not at all, using two fingers to smack at his scrotum. It sends a spike of pain up his spine, hot and sudden and perfect, and Erik gasps. He grits his teeth, sweat beading on his temples and his chest, and continues fondling his balls until they are sore. His cock is a throbbing ache, now, fluid steadily leaking from the tip; still Erik has not touched it, no, not yet --

With a desperate, guttural sound, he drags his hand up again. His back arches to chase the movement, groin greedy for contact, but his hands cup around his nipples as he twists and worries them, until the fading redness of his agitated skin returns. Tiny sparks of pleasure shoot up and down his spine, his whole body so tense he thinks he might snap.

Charles liked to take it slow, he does. Sex with him could take _hours,_ hours of Charles poised on top of Erik, teasing him with the masterful dance of his tongue, so softly, so lovingly Erik could shatter into pieces. There's not an inch of Erik's skin Charles hasn't tasted.

Minutes pass with Erik teasing himself - soft touches in his inner thigh only to skitter away, back again, away, a caress over his hipbone and a press to his perineum, bursts of pleasure so intense and fleeting that he is whimpering with every breath. His cock is sopping wet, soaked in precome. By accident, his knuckles graze against the head, and Erik buckles, the pleasure almost too much to bear. He groans, deep and long and guttural, eyes squeezed and teeth bared. Traces of tears collect in the corner of his eyes. The wait is _torturous_ , his cock twitching in blissful agony.

Unable to stand it any longer, he wraps his hand around his cock. A keening sob tears itself from his chest. _Finally_ , he thinks, _finally,_ his body broadcasting pleasure with spasms.

With a sharp exhale, he glides his hand up to the tip, fingers tracing his circumcision scar, and back down slowly. He repeats the motion several times, the pace of his breath quickening. He wants to take this slow, _he does_ , but his hands inadvertently move faster and faster and faster still, chasing the burn of pleasure, until he is rubbing himself at a brutal pace. There’s not enough lubrication, precome and saliva easily wiped away, but the friction of dry skin is a delicious torment in itself.

Pumping furiously, fist squeezing his cock in an almost painful manner, Erik snarls in frustration. It's not _enough_. It's - it's still not as good as Charles' mouth, or his ass, and Erik remembers too clearly the way it feels when he slides so deep inside Charles, slick heat clenching tight around him. Around his cock, Charles is eager and impatient, urging him on with filthy words and sensuous rolls of his hips. Sometimes, Charles fucks like a monster, an incubus, wanton and greedy and wringing from Erik every last drop of pleasure.

And there had been nights like that, nights they spent awake with Erik's wrists bound to the bed, buried deep in Charles, who rode him within an inch of his life. Those times, Charles becomes merciless, devouring Erik's body the way a starving man would a banquet. His telepathy rears alive, then, amplifying and sharing every sensation, searing and intense, just this side of _too fucking much_. Echoing slaps of skin against skin, intoxicating heat, _excruciating_ pleasure robbing Erik of any ability to think. His tongue sits loose and useless in his mouth as Charles grins down upon him, smug, eyes blown and blurry with lust.

_Good boy,_ Charles had said, and Erik, almost embarrassingly, keened. _You love this, don't you? Helpless, writhing beneath me as I take you apart._

Erik hadn't even been able to speak. He had come, again and again and again, until the world became blurry, his mind and soul cracked and bare, broken, pleasure tearing him open, ripping him right out of himself.

He's broken now, too, in a lonelier way. Keening, Erik presses a thumb to the slit of his cock. His whole body quakes.

_No! h_ e snarls. No, he doesn't want to come from this. He gnashes his teeth, twisting his hand and gripping his fist tight around his cock to prevent his climax. Pain and ecstasy blur, rippling beneath his skin, and it’s blinding, _so fucking good,_ but this is not what he needs right now.

So he sits up. Without thinking he jams his fingers in his mouth, liberally coating them with saliva. It’s a messy job, his mind buzzing with impatience, but it’s enough. Then he reaches back and dips his finger into the crack of his ass. He rubs along the tender skin, remembering - Charles had him bent on his elbows and knees, once, the flat of his tongue pressed against Erik's very centre, and he'd tasted, taken,  _worshipped_ , until Erik had no choice but to cry and beg. Delirious with heat, straining with lust, fingers and toes clenching with insane desperation. _Please,_ he had said, groaning into the mattress, the sound ragged and ripped straight out of his throat. _Please, please, please --_

_I love you,_ Charles answered, breath and mind, dropping a kiss so sweet it nearly hurt. Erik shivered, his whole body trembling with the richness of all he was feeling. _I love you more than anything._  

With punishing force, he drives himself down onto his fingers. Obscene sounds fall from his throat as he imagines what riding Charles' cock in his wheelchair would be like. Charles would want to be gentle; of course he would. Their first meeting in years, all the trappings of something romantic and passionate. But Erik is impatient and possessive, the loneliness of the past years manifesting as vicious hunger. When they meet again, Erik will _devour_ him. He will entrap his body beneath his, bear down upon him using his whole weight. His chair Erik will greedily manipulate, using the metal to lock Charles' wrists and ankles down - he will sit there, strong and beautiful and completely _helpless_ , soul and body at Erik's mercy, displayed for him like a feast.

He would bite Charles' neck, shoulders, stomach, sink his teeth into Charles' sweet flesh until he screams, ensure the world knows to whom Charles really belongs. This time, this time, in this turn of events, it'll be Erik who will destroy him, who will possess him so utterly and thoroughly, Erik's scent forever imprinted within his very bones. Erik will _own_ him - and Charles, _Charles_ will never slip away from Erik ever again.

At the thought Erik lets out a hoarse shout. Unwittingly, his eyes snap open, catching sight of the glass that keeps him in his cell. On a whim, he imagines what it would be like if Charles is there, now, on the other side of the glass. That thought spurs him on - he thrusts, erratic and wild, body jackknifing on the pivot of his fingers. Half-conscious of the other hand trailing up his chest, he shoves come-stained fingers into his mouth, spearing himself open on both ends.

_See this, Charles?_ he thinks, slamming himself viciously up and down. _Enjoying the show?_

_Hush,_ Charles would say. _You'll injure yourself._ And then he would quirk his lips and wriggle his fingers, and whisper, right onto the skin over Erik's beating heart, gentle and essential as the air that inhabits Erik's lungs, _I can help you with that._

Erik comes with a long, destroyed yell, his whole body wracked in rapturous spasms. Spurts of semen land on his stomach, splattering across his chest. For long moments he can only gasp, his consciousness utterly decimated.

He comes down slowly from the high. More and more of his surroundings become apparent once more - the cool air, the hard concrete beneath his back. As he struggles to control his breathing, his lips move, forming soundless, nameless words, words that may be _I love you_ or _Charles_ or a thousand permutations of need. Erik chooses to examine them no further. Eventually his breath settles, and he opens his eyes, staring out of the glass.

There's no one, and his own semen tastes bitter on the tip of his tongue.

With mechanical motions he cleans himself up and dons his clothes. He lies back down on the pallet, face stony, and tries to sleep. Never again, he thinks, though his mind still swims in a daze. Just this once and he'll stop longing for a face that never appears. Just this once and he'll stop turning at every hallucination of a familiar laugh.

Just this once.

He tells himself that every time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written solely for the pun in the title. Which doesn't even look like a pun :(


End file.
